


It’s not like I want to kiss him and marry him and have a thousand Bisley babies

by left_handed



Category: Spaced
Genre: It's Friday I'm in love, Rather like the Exorcist but with more guns, Tea solves all problems, especially tea with tequila
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-28
Updated: 2012-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-02 15:14:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/left_handed/pseuds/left_handed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daisy worked it out first. Now she had to figure out a way to break it to Tim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It’s not like I want to kiss him and marry him and have a thousand Bisley babies

 

I mean, it’s not every day you fall in love with your flatmate. Or realize you’ve been in love with him for ages. A flatmate who, by the way, was a stranger before you moved in together. And yet.  
  
As for Tim, well, Sophie still calls, sometimes. This is how the conversation went last week: “Hi Sophie. Nah, Tim’s not here. No, work. Yeah. Oh by the way, I’m madly in love with him and you’re in another country and I’m thinking he loves me too. But I’ll tell him you rang. Bye!”  
  
There was a sentence in the middle there that she only said in her head. At least, she’s pretty sure she only said it in her head. Oh well. All’s fair etc etc  
  
“Mike?” she asks, one day, from her spot on the couch while he’s in the beanbag with a controller in his hands. “You know Tim, right?”  
  
“Yeah, I know Tim.”  
  
“Do you think he fancies me?”  
  
“What?” Mike goes to turn around but he stops halfway, with his head in her direction and the rest of him...not. Rather like the Excorcist. But with more guns.   
  
“Well, I think I might... you know, love him. Well, not real love, obviously. It’s not like I want to kiss him and marry him and have a thousand Bisley babies. But well, maybe, I mean, I was wondering...”  
  
“Yeah, alright.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“I dunno, like,” says Mike, turning back to the television. “He might do, yeah. But you’re also a mate. And that’s not something you mess about with, is it?”  
  
Daisy stands up to turn the kettle on. Tim walks in then, shoots Daisy a smile, and plops down on the floor next to Mike.   
  
“Hiya,” Daisy calls from the kitchen.  
  
“Are you making tea?” asks Tim, picking up a controller. “Make me one?”  
  
Daisy mumbles a response and takes down another cup for Tim.   
  
This won’t do at all, she thinks. She’s got her side all figured out. It explains why she hates Sophie for no good reason even though Sophie has never been anything but nice. (Well, apart from the perfect hair and the cheekbones and the size a-lot-smaller-than-her). It explains why, at the end of the day, she wants to go down the pub with Tim and laugh about the stupid things she’s done. Why she’s seen Star Wars so many times she can recite it, and she’s this close to being able to recite it backwards. It explains the feeling in the pit of her stomach when he calls her pickle. Actually, it was that feeling that tipped her off in the first place.   
  
And why hasn’t he sorted it out by now? Didn’t he pick her over Sophie, when it came down to it? (She learned that bit from Mike, later, when they were fondling their robot, how Mike had gone to meet Sophie while Tim came to her at the station. She tries to imagine Mike showing up riding the robot, and now she’s going to have nightmares for at least a week) And wouldn’t he rather be with her at home, or at the pub, than anywhere else in the world? He told her so, just last week. Okay, he was definitely drunk at the time, but that’s when you tell the truth, right?   
  
Right. So. There’s your answer. Time to get pissed. Good and proper drunk. This calls for tequila. A lot of tequila. Daisy briefly considers spiking the tea (well, she more than considers it and adds a drop to her own mug), and as she takes the other two cups over to the couch, she asks, in a tone she hopes sounds quite casual, “Pub later?”  
  
“Unh,” is the reply from the beanbag. She smiles. This could actually work.   
  



End file.
